Fred grinned at Mariana as she approached.

‘Hello there. Fancy some chips? My treat.’

The smell of frying had reminded Mariana she was hungry – she had barely touched that bloody dinner at Fosca’s. She nodded gratefully.

‘I’d love some.’

‘Coming right up, miss.’

Fred bounded into the entrance, tripping on the step – and colliding with another customer, who swore at him. Mariana had to smile – he really was one of the clumsiest people she had ever met. He soon emerged again, holding two white paper bags, bulging with steaming chips.

‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Ketchup? Or mayo?’

Mariana shook her head. ‘Neither, thanks.’ She blew on the chips to cool them for a minute. Then she tried one. It was salty and sharp, a little too sharp, with vinegar. She coughed, and Fred gave her an anxious look.

‘Too much vinegar? Sorry. My hand slipped.’

‘It’s okay.’ Mariana smiled and shook her head. ‘They’re great.’

‘Good.’

They stood there for a moment, silently eating their chips. As she ate, Mariana glanced at him. The soft lamplight made his boyish features seem even younger. He was just a kid, she thought. An eager Boy Scout. She felt a genuine fondness for him in that moment.

Fred caught her looking at him. He gave her a timid smile. He spoke between mouthfuls. ‘I’ll regret saying this, I’m sure. But I’m very happy you called me. It means you must have missed me, even if just a tiny bit—’ Fred saw her expression, and his smile faded. ‘Ah. I see I’m wrong. That’s not why you called.’

‘I called because something happened – and I want to talk to you about it.’

Fred looked a little more hopeful. ‘So you did want to talk to me?’

‘Oh, Fred.’ Mariana rolled her eyes. ‘Just listen.’

‘Go ahead.’

Fred ate his chips as Mariana told him what happened – about finding the postcards, and discovering the same quotation underlined in Fosca’s book.

He remained silent after she finished. Finally, he said, ‘What are you going to do?’

Mariana shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

Fred brushed the crumbs from his mouth, crumpled up the paper bag, and threw it in the bin. She watched him, trying to read his expression.

‘You don’t think I’m – imagining it?’

‘No.’ Fred shook his head. ‘I don’t.’

‘Even though he has an alibi – for both murders?’

He shrugged. ‘One of the girls who gave him an alibi is dead.’

‘Yes.’

‘And Serena could be lying.’

‘Yes.’

‘And there’s another possibility, of course—’

‘Which is?’

‘He’s working with someone. An accomplice.’

Mariana peered at him. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘Why not? It explains how he can be in two places at once.’

‘Possibly.’

‘You don’t look convinced.’

Mariana shrugged. ‘He doesn’t strike me as the kind of person to have a partner. He’s very much a lone wolf.’

‘Perhaps.’ Fred thought for a second. ‘Anyway, we need some proof – you know, something concrete – or no one will ever believe us.’

‘And how do we get that?’

‘We’ll think of something. Let’s meet first thing tomorrow and make a plan.’

‘I can’t tomorrow – I have to go to London. But I’ll call you when I get back.’

‘Okay.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But, Mariana. Listen. Fosca must know you’re on to him, so …’

He didn’t finish the sentence, just left it hanging. Mariana nodded.

‘Don’t worry. I’m being careful.’

‘Good.’ Fred paused. ‘There’s only one more thing to say.’ He grinned. ‘You look incredibly, stunningly beautiful tonight … Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

‘No.’ Mariana shook her head. ‘I won’t. But thanks very much for the chips.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘Good night.’

They smiled at each other. Then Mariana turned and walked away. At the end of the street, still smiling, she glanced back – but Fred had gone.

Funny, that – he seemed to have vanished.

As she made her way back to college, Mariana’s phone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket. She glanced at it – the caller’s number was withheld.

She hesitated, then answered. ‘Hello?’

No reply.

‘Hello?’

There was silence – and then a whispering voice.

‘Hello, Mariana.’

She froze. ‘Who is this?’

‘I can see you, Mariana. I’m watching you—’

‘Henry?’ She was sure it was him – she recognised his voice. ‘Henry, is that you—?’

The line went dead. Mariana stood there, staring at the phone for a second. She felt deeply uneasy. She looked around – but the street was deserted.

3

The next morning, Mariana got up early to go to London.

As she left her room, walking across Main Court, she glanced through the archway into Angel Court.

And there he was – Edward Fosca – standing outside his staircase, smoking.

But he wasn’t alone. He was talking to someone – a college porter who had his back to Mariana. It was obvious, from the sheer size and height of the man, it was Morris.

Mariana hurried over to the archway. She hid behind it, and then cautiously peered around the wall.

Something had told her this was worth investigating, something about the expression on Fosca’s face. A look of sustained annoyance that she hadn’t seen before. What Fred had said popped into her mind – about Fosca working with someone.

Could it possibly be Morris?

She saw Fosca slip something into Morris’s hand. It looked like a bulky envelope. An envelope stuffed with what? Money?

Mariana could feel her imagination running away with her. She let it run. Was Morris blackmailing Fosca – was that it? Was he being paid to keep quiet?

Could this be it – what she needed – some kind of concrete proof?

Morris abruptly turned around. He started walking away from Fosca – and in Mariana’s direction.

She pulled back and flattened herself against the wall. Morris marched through the archway, passing by without even noticing her. Mariana watched him cross Main Court and go out the gate.

She quickly followed him.

4

Mariana hurried out the gate, and kept a safe distance from Morris on the street. He seemed to have no sense he was being followed. He sauntered along, whistling to himself, enjoying the walk and in no apparent hurry.

He strolled past Emmanuel College and the terraced houses all the way along the street, past the bikes chained up to the railings. Then he turned left, into a lane, and disappeared.

Mariana hurried to the lane. She peered into it. It was a narrow street, with a row of houses on either side.

It came to a dead end – an abrupt halt. A wall cut across the road: an old red brick wall, with ivy crawling all over it.

To Mariana’s surprise, Morris kept walking, right up to the wall.

He reached it. He dug his fingers into a space left by one of the looser bricks, grabbed hold, and pulled himself up. Then he scaled the wall with ease, climbed over it – and vanished over the other side.

Damn, she thought. Mariana deliberated for a moment.

Then she hurried over to the wall. She considered it. She wasn’t sure she could manage it. She scanned the bricks – and saw a space to grip.

She reached up and grabbed hold – but the brick came away from the wall in her hand. She fell back.

She threw the brick aside. She tried again.

This time, Mariana managed to pull herself up. With difficulty, she climbed over the top of the wall – and then fell down the other side …

She landed in a different world.

5

On the other side of the wall, there was no road. No houses. Just wild grass, conifer trees, and overgrown blackberry bushes. It took Mariana a few seconds to realise where she was.

This was the abandoned cemetery on Mill Road.

Mariana had been here once before, nearly twenty years ago, when she had explored it with Sebastian one sultry summer afternoon. She hadn’t liked the cemetery then; she thought it was sinister, desolate.

She didn’t like it now either.

She pulled herself up. She looked around. No sign of Morris. She listened: it was quiet, no sound of footsteps – or even birdsong. Just deathly silence.

She looked at the interconnecting paths up ahead, between a sea of graves overgrown with moss and massive holly bushes. Many of the headstones had toppled over, or snapped in two – throwing dark, jagged shadows onto the wild grass. All the names and dates on the headstones had long since been erased by time and bad weather. All these unremembered people – these forgotten lives. There was such a sense of loss, of futility. Mariana couldn’t wait to get out of there.

She made her way along the path nearest the wall. She had no intention of losing her bearings, not now.

She stopped, and listened – but again, no sound of footsteps.

Nothing. No sound.

She had lost him.